Kingdom Come
by VellichorNovelist
Summary: A dead king steps out of the water, into a world he barely recognises. But even fifteen hundred years after his death, there are still prophecies. There are still sorcerers and magic. In the backdrop of everything, shadowy figures lurk and whisper. Destiny, it seemed, was not quite done with him yet. Rating won't go above T.
1. The Boat

**A/N:  
** **Me:** Right so I have to update my Buffy fanfiction as it's three or four months overdue-  
 **Me to me:** Start an entirely new fanfiction story. No one will mind. Probably. Do it.

And that's how this happened. I promise I'll get to that Buffy fanfiction soon. Probably.  
 **The rating for this won't go over T** and if there's any **gruesome scenes or swearing** there will be a **warning** in the author's note. I got you guys, don't worry. *peace sign*

Also- IMPORTANT- the current title is a _working title._ It's going to change because it's such a cheesy name and I'm really indecisive. So either follow the story, me or just jot my username VellichorNovelist down somewhere if you want to keep updated.

Umm so I know this isn't fantastic but don't worry. The writing will get better, and all you can do to write well is to write rubbishly! … Anyway. *steals a handful of your popcorn*

Deep breath, now.

'The Boat'

There is water, and a boat. That he knows for sure. He doesn't know how he is so certain, he just _knows_ \- the boat is wooden and small, big enough for his body to only just fit. The water doesn't rock the boat, it just sits there. Patient. Waiting. It's black, like ink, something he knows with certainty, although once again he doesn't know how. It feels familiar, the image of the boat in the water, like the wisp of a dream. He is never fast enough to see where the wisp will lead, and it twinkles into nothing.

He cannot open his eyes. Like a pale cloud on a summer's day, the thought takes it's time to drift into his consciousness. He wonders if that should bother him.

He falls back to sleep.

Time stretches on under his closed eyelids, his mind sinking in and out of consciousness. The sea is always too still, the boat is always too small. He feels his toes press against the end.

Inside, he is numb. His emotions are as static as the space around him. His thoughts slide by sluggishly, and he only spares them a short look. Like a shell, he is empty. The silence inside gnaws at his skin, at his mind. How long has he been like this? A minute? A decade?

Then, once again, he is asleep. His dreams are grey and clouded with memories he doesn't have, with memories he wants more than anything else.

The feeling of hopelessness that hits him is staggering, it sends him reeling.

As fast as it comes, it has vanished. Like lightning, shock fills and fizzes up his head. It is dizzying it it's warpath. After so long of nothing, he doesn't know what to do.

A gust of emotion wells up inside, threatening to spill out and join the water around him. He wonders how it has been since he was so _aware._ His mind is flying, dancing. But his body is still stuck. The realisation sends whole new imaginings around his head: _anger. Annoyance._ This feeling he knows well. And also: _determination. Hope._

Something is changing. There is a ripple in the water, tapping against his little vessel. After so long of nothing, the tiny movement is overwhelmingly welcomed.

His fingers twitch, and as they tap against the wood a sense of _wakefulness_ floods him. Warmth charges through his veins, burning and hot in its' passionate run.

The water is hitting against the boat now, rocking it from side to side. Up. Down.

He does not notice.

His eyes are open.

His fingers grip the edge of the boat, and he struggles manically into a sitting position.

Memories rush back to him in fragments like broken glass- a snowy castle, a forest on fire and the sound of running feet. There is a sword, glinting in harsh sunlight. Faces he hasn't seen in so long- too long- meet his gaze. The images blur into shapes, into paint strokes. Then there is a voice, gentle and teasing. He matches a face to it instantly: a man with pale blue eyes and dark black hair. He is smiling.

 _Wakey, wakey, lazy daisy._

With a final, determined crash, a wave smashes into the craft's side.

He is thrown overboard, flailing and crying out at the icy cold liquid.

Darkness. He blinks furiously, desperately, and as he does little spots of _light_ appear in his vision. Streaming down from above, is light. The boat has vanished, but he doesn't really give it much attention.

 _Light._

His head breaks the water, into sunlight. Spluttering and coughing wildly, he probably looks insane. Air hits his lungs for the first time in what feels like centuries. He breathes. In. Out. For a second, he closes his eyes as they scream and rage in the afternoon sunshine. Instantly, leather boots touch the sandy floor of a lake, weighed down by sodden armour and a cloak the colour of blood. He drags himself through a mess of weeds and rocks, ignoring a group of startled fish.

Disorientated in a frantic frenzy, he stumbles and trips in the water. It's blue, he notices with a hysterical giggle.

Everything has fallen into place, and he laughs again at the rush of _completion_ he feels as his memories return. Guinevere, smiling at something he said, fills his mind's eye. She is twirling a violet flower in her hands, a rosy blush across her cheeks. He prays she is safe. He remembers a young woman with more anger than the Devil, charging into battle. Morgana was always feisty, even from a young age. He wonders where she is now- dead? Queen? Finally, he remembers Merlin. Merlin the sorcerer. Merlin the servant. Merlin his friend. What grief he must've felt on that fateful day.

He steps up the slope, his head held high. Now composed and calm, the man is every inch the legend he was brought up to be. His face is turned to the golden sunlight as he breathes. In. Out. The air is warm on his face, and he blinks droplets of water out of his eyes. Despite being freezing in the cold water, he felt a warm tingle of happiness spread out through his body. He is _alive._ There is no more boat or endless sleep. He is alive.

Arthur Pendragon has risen.

But suddenly, unexpectedly, his euphoria vanishes as a noise so loud, so unrecognisable intrudes his ears he thinks he is insane.

Something screams past him, too fast to comprehend, and he stares. And _sees._


	2. Coven

**A/N:**

And... 9 months later, here is chapter 2! Sorry for the wait. At least it wasn't 2000 years though, eh? Also if you see any mistakes please say! I didn't proof read this as much as I could've oops.

'Coven'

A candle glints into life. It fills the room, glaringly harsh, muffling the quiet whispers and quiet footsteps that had occupied the space before.

They are standing in a circle- five figures, each shrouded in long, black cloaks and silky veils. Something interrupts them: a noise, a shout. They pay no attention.

The candle is passed around them, and they each mutter blessings too quiet to hear.

Around them, the room seems to draw together, as if the very walls themselves are watching the spectacle.

As the candle finishes its lap- the wax is hot, and drips with sneering fury- it is lifted into the air with shaking fingers. Solemnly, like a promise.

Suddenly, a basket.

It is small and woven, filled with sultry spices and pots. Stinking and putrid, the smell seems to linger in the air. It sticks to their clothes.

Stepping forward, another veiled person takes a pot. He lays it on the ground, shaking the grains into a glistening circle of silver around them.

All the while he mutters a phrase, too foreign and strange to catch for the untrained ear: _"Fram_ _beneoðan uncer, hit_ _gefeorme."_

 _From beneath you, it devours._

 _"Fram_ _beneoðan uncer, hit_ _gefeorme."_

 _From beneath you, it devours._

The man's voice is loud now, and is joined by others. They rise in a chorus- of love, of plotting, of anger and cruelty.

" _"Fram_ _beneoðan uncer, hit_ _gefeorme!"_

There is a flash, like lightning.

The five rip off their veils, mouths gaping and contorting at what lay before them, their faces stark and white in the gloom.

The candle is dropped to the floor, left to roll in smoky embers and salt, and a shadow falls across the stone. It looms, a dark interpretation of deathly desires, as still and as solemn as the night.

The witches' eyes are lit with glee and-

Merlin pauses the video.

Sitting in his chair, he thoughtfully leans back, watching the computer screen. Outside, the sunlight glimmers through the window.

He stares into the faces of the practitioners and they stare back, albeit a bit pixelated.

Their eyes, gleam with a golden hue he has not seen in centuries. He feels his heart race a little, his hair stand on end as goose bumps crawl across his skin and red hot blood roars through his ears.

The video, uploaded only a week ago, had already gained global recognition on YouTube and Instagram. Merlin might've laughed at the absurdity of the situation, if it hadn't been so close to home.

Slowly standing up, he strides out of the room, his feet padding down carpeted stairs.

A few seconds later, there is the slamming of a door. The house returns to a state of silence, the only noise the creaking of floorboards- although no one is in it.

For a tiny second, the eyes on the screen seem to flicker.


End file.
